Page 7 of A Tryst By the Sea
“You were lucky last time,” Penelope said, opening her parasol. “Though it was a very pretty shell.”
“You no longer have it?” That hurt, more than it should.
“I do, somewhere. Bella suggested I give it to the jewelers to fashion all that nacre into a little box. I put the shell away rather than leave it out to tempt her.”
“Because Bella might think to surprise you by taking the initiative with the jewelers. She excels at taking the initiative.” Probably a matter of survival for a mother of seven, but not one of the lady’s more likable qualities.
The tide was out, which was perfect for shell hunting. Gill perched on a handy rock and pulled off his boots, then his stockings. Penelope watched him, her expression pensive.
“Does the sight of my bare feet offend?” Gill asked, draping his stockings over his boots and adding his jacket to the pile. Because he was wearing his riding breeches, his ankles and calves were also on display.
Penelope looked away, far out to sea. “The sight of your bare feet tempts me, though sand on the toes has a way of ending up everywhere.”
“You did not come all this way merely to gaze upon the ocean, my lady. Come wading with me. You were about to indulge in that very pleasure when you spotted me on the path.”
“The water will be frigid at this time of year.”
How many reasons could she concoct to avoid even the smallest detour from strict propriety?
“Not frigid,” Gill said. “Refreshing. Hand me your parasol, and I promise not to peek.”
As a new husband, he’d peeked. He’d casually strolled in and out of his wife’s boudoir, handled her clothing, and handledher. She’d handled him, too, but they’d lost the knack. In recent years, Tommie had advised Gill to just set up a mistress and be done with it.
But Gill hadn’t set up a mistress. He hadn’t marched into Penelope’s bedroom, and Penelope hadn’t marched into Gill’s bedroom either.
Penelope surrendered her parasol and dealt with her half boots and stockings. “The sand is warm,” she said, wiggling bare toes. “But the water will be shockingly cold.”
She hiked her skirts a few inches, left the dry sand, and let that water wash around her ankles. “And to think people immerse themselves entirely,” she said. “It’s a wonder they don’t catch an ague on the spot.”
“They sea-bathe later in the year,” Gill replied, wading past her. “God, this feels good.” Revitalizing, and not simply because the water was cold. The ocean had energy, movement, power… He’d forgotten that. Forgotten the pleasure of communing with the reality of living water.
Penelope stood in the shallows, the brim of her straw hat flapping in the breeze, while she held her bunched hems around her calves. She might have been her much younger self, except for the way she watched him.
“Find me a shell, my lady. A pretty shell to commemorate this lovely day.”
To his surprise, Penelope began searching the damp sand, and soon they were comparing finds—a dog whelk was colorful but chipped, and several tellins were judged too small. Penelope decided to keep a painted top of a rosy hue, while Gill tossed every candidate back into the foaming surf.
“I’m holding out for an ormer,” he said, “a beautiful, intact specimen for my lady. I’m hungry, and we have wandered quite a distance. Let’s start back, before the tide comes in and washes away my favorite boots.” Without thinking, he extended a hand to Penelope.
She took it, and sidled close enough to walk with him arm in arm down the strand. The late afternoon sunshine bathed the cottage upon its little overlook, and the larger edifice of the inn proper rose behind it on the far side of the elms.
“The trees surprised me,” Gill said. “They are enormous, considering how poor coastal soil can be.” The elms were native to the Low Countries, where thin soil and salty sea air were the norm.
“You surprised me,” Penelope replied. “The last thing I expected to find on the cottage sofa was a man, much less my husband. I should have told you where I was going, my lord. I apologize for that.”
Gill had always esteemed Penelope’s sense of integrity. If she was wrong, she admitted it. If she was right, she did not back down except to protect another person’s dignity. At some point in the last ten years, Lady Summerton had become formidable. She was an influential hostess, and she did not tolerate gossip or backbiting.
“I might have asked to come with you,” Gill said, “and if you sought solitude, my presence would have been a burden.”
“Town is a burden. As a girl, I longed to make my come out, then I longed to entertain. To plan the most spectacular menus, the most elegant centerpieces, but for what? To impress people who will forget what they ate before they have returned to their coaches?”
That sentiment was as shocking as the chill of the ocean surf. “I thought you enjoyed all the social whatnot, Penelope. You excel at it.”
“You vote your seat, my lord. A peer who is active in Parliament should be able to rely on his wife to support his political goals.”
Gill was stunned to think that all those elegant dinners, the musicales, the Venetian breakfasts had been… for him?
His pondering was cut short as a larger wave advanced toward the shore. He scooped up his wife and charged to higher ground with her in his arms while the surf soaked the knees of his breeches.
